What's the Matter with Jane?
by Entwife Incognito
Summary: Kinda rough, but that's how emotion is. Lisbon ponders Jane in this one-shot and finally talks to him. A tag of sorts for The Golden Hammer. Not much of a "T," but a little bad language. Some discussion of suicidal ideation. Hints at sexuality. Tiny bit of romance. Nothing explicit at all. (No sex.) Disclaimer: I own nothing about The Mentalist.


Looks! Glances! Compliments about her hat! Jealousy of Ardiles so ill-concealed. Suffering so obvious. Suffering in silence. His mouth sealed as if someone had played a trick on him with super glue.

He wore the socks she gave him every fucking day for Christ's sake! She could even take the scruff, the rumple, the worn, the repetitive. But she couldn't take the silent suffering. Where did this man come from? What had he done with Jane, eaten him hollow? He was so vacant she thought she could see the breezes blow right through him, press his suit coat against his ribs on one side and blow it loose, flapping, on the other.

He was infuriating. Especially since now she could view him with the limited detachment of more than two years separation. Not knowing if she would ever see him again helped a lot with the distance needed to move on.

Put up hot and wet every night, she was like a horse taken with colic. Her body had grown sick of craving him. How she had suffered in the beginning. The loss of her reputation, her job, her career, her work family, had been devastating. That she could not save the rest of her team from ruin were the barbs in the nine-tailed whip she beat herself with regularly. They were all set well, now.

They had stuck together until the end, united in the determination that justice should be brought to Red John, and not the law. He should be killed, and any one or all of them was willing, no, happy to do it. Jane had got his revenge. And then he disappeared.

Teresa Lisbon entered her newly leased Austin apartment. Thank god she was out of that long-stay motel room! It totally creeped her out to find herself living as Patrick Jane had for so many years. What would it be next? Creating a hangout in some attic corner of the FBI building? Hauling a couch next to her desk, facing Jane's so they could have long, cozy talks? She couldn't get out of that motel room fast enough.

Tossing her keys in the bowl on the entryway table, she removed holster and badge and set them next to the bowl. She tried to leave her angry thoughts at the door. But they crept into her shoulders, heated her neck and set her jaw on edge. She wanted to scream! Throw things! Break things! Beat someone up! Wallop Jane with blow after blow until he cried and then bring him to her bosom and comfort him, hold him until whatever was inside of him spilled out and she could see him again. What had happened to him? Why was his confidence so shaken? Why would he not speak for her!

Two years of soulful, almost confessional letters. There was love in them. Undeclared, and she could understand why. How could he declare himself from exile, bind her to him knowing they would never see each other again? Yet every sentence cried out his loneliness, his need and longing for her, unspoken. The tragedy of their situation had weighed her down every day. Yes, she got on with her life without him. Without anybody. Because nobody could take his place. It wasn't possible. Oh, how she wished it was.

Walking to the refrigerator, she intended to open it. Instead, she beat on the door until her hands hurt and she thought she might have dislocated the little finger on her left hand. In pain and frustration she kicked the bottom of the door with her boot. She would have loved to see it cave, but no such luck. A scream welled in her throat and she ran to throw herself on the couch and stuff her face into a pillow to let it out. Because it had to come out. Sometimes she understood why people cut themselves. Maybe she should have gone to the gym or better, the shooting range before coming home. But she'd just wanted to get away from the building. Away from him.

"You're a mess! Look at you! You've transported back in time with that homeless look!"

His eyes squinted at the heat of her disdain as if he had looked into the sun.

"What happened to you? Why are you like this? Why don't you speak up?"

"You told me not to—"

"Not to speak to me?"

"Not to try to control your life."

Mouth open, she had stared at him. What was he talking about? What did all these awkward silences have to do with controlling her life?

"You seem happy. I'm glad for that. I'm glad you like this job and the life and people it gives you. It's what I wanted for you. I didn't mean to control your life. I just wanted you to be happy. I owed you that. A way opened up for me to repay you and I took it. But it makes you want to get away from me."

"I don't want to get away from you."

"You do. It's okay. I understand. It's natural for you to bond with Fischer."

"I'm not bonding with her." She felt the falsity of her words. "Okay. I'm bonding with her. It's part of becoming a team, I guess. It doesn't take anything away from you."

Jane said nothing. Was there anything he could say that wouldn't sound petty and mean? He was losing his partner. Anything he did to hold on to her would surely be considered controlling.

"Jane?"

He had just looked at her with those sad eyes and walked away. That look! Where did that come from? It wasn't like him. Sadness? He never showed her that. But it was a certain kind of sadness. Lisbon closed her eyes and attempted to try on that look. What would she be feeling if she had that look in her eyes? She let it work on her for a few moments. Lonely? Could Jane be lonely? He had always sought solitude. Acted as if he didn't want close personal attachments. But that was before. Before Red John was gone.

Lisbon popped the cap from a cold beer. Why would he feel lonely now? God damn it! She was spending her time worrying about Patrick Jane again! "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" She threw the cap across the kitchen and wished it was a bowling ball!

"Fuck!" She was going to have to work this off in the gym. She had to punch something! She stuffed a paper towel in the neck of the bottle and put it back in the fridge.

She cursed herself on the ride back to the FBI building. She didn't want to have to figure out Patrick Jane's loneliness while she was establishing herself in the new job. Not as an appendage or security blanket or main squeeze, or whatever people thought, to Patrick Jane!

How weak and cruel that sounded. Certainly understandable, even needed. He had got her the job. Risked life imprisonment or possibly even a death sentence to wheel and deal for her. Was it control? Or was it love, even selfless love? All she saw was that she was at the top of his demands, even before his pardon. Maybe she wasn't an appendage. Maybe he had been trying to repay her for, for . . . everything. By arranging the only thing in his power to give. Sure, it worked and he became a free man. But that was his second demand. Her job was his first.

Putting on gloves, she headed straight for the punching bag, grunting and sweating in no time, working out for about thirty minutes with breaks. She lowered the bag to practice kicking, too. While the solid feel of her glove or boot hitting the bag was great satisfaction, the sound as her fist connected revved her to the core and always left her in want. Sometimes she felt she could, and wanted to, fuck anyone or anything afterwards. As usual, she went home and worked it off by herself, usually in the shower. Sometimes, if she wasn't nearly coming apart already, she took her time on the bed with small battery-operated appliances made just for that purpose.

Sated, Lisbon dried off, threw on a jersey and tumbled into bed. She rested on her back, breathing to relax, her mind drifting and flowing, attaching and letting go. Phrases from Jane's letters filtered in, calling images of his life on the island of his exile.

Two years. Living alone. Never really learning the language because he didn't want to be there and wanted to come home. Missing her and the CBI. Making a life as a monk among a mass of people with whom he could build no close relationships. Must have been basically friendless in that sense. Isolated. Alone. Creating a routine for himself that gave him things to do and a certain level of expectation for his day. Letters that came as close to pouring his heart out as Jane could ever come. Unanswered. He knew they could not be answered, yet he wrote. To keep his connection. To her.

Fischer and Abbott. What had Fischer done on that island? What was her role in capturing Jane? Sometimes the way he looked at her. So cold, but a cold hurt. He said he knew the real her. What did that mean?

They brought him home in custody, lying to him and reneging on their agreement, then gleefully tossing him in jail. Federal jail with a nice enough looking room. But it was solitary confinement. For three months. Isolated. Again. Alone. Why did he have only one set of clothes in there? Why did he have no socks? He couldn't even write her then. And they wouldn't let him have her letters. To break him. To blackmail him into servitude, really. She snorted her derision. They didn't know Jane. But it had to be worse than his exile on the island, just shorter. There, he could freely move around the town, at least. Yet he endured it, held out. For his freedom. That was second on his list.

Damn it! She needed to let go of Patrick Jane's problems and get some sleep!

Over coffee, before she left in the morning, Lisbon still couldn't shake the sense of something terribly wrong, something she was missing. She resolved to watch Jane and how he interacted to see if she could pick it up. She owed him at least enough focused time to try to understand him. She was his friend, after all. Maybe that would solve it and she could move on.

Arriving home very unsettled by what she had taken the time to observe, Lisbon stowed her things and made a cup of tea, the better to mull all things Patrick Jane.

At a mid-morning lull, she asked him if he wanted to break for tea. He looked surprised. Then pleased. His reaction made her a little sad. It looked like loneliness, surprised that he would be asked. Or maybe just by her? They walked to a nearby barista with outdoor seating. Small brown birds capered at their feet, arguing over crumbs.

Jane stared off, not offering conversation. He seemed deflated. Reaching over to him, Lisbon tapped his arm lightly with two fingers and said softly, "Hey."

He started a little and tried to cover up by straightening his posture in the chair, then smiled wanly. "Hey."

"What's going on with you, huh? You seem sad. Things haven't been right with you since we started with the FBI."

"Probably been longer than that for me."

"Yeah. As a matter of fact, I've been thinking about you and being on that island all alone and what happened after you got back. I don't think it's been good for you. In fact, probably pretty horrible."

He puffed out his cheeks under eyes full of pain and blew slowly. "Yeah. Well. It's over. We're here. That's the good thing. Isn't it?" His eyes searched her face.

"Really? You really don't know that's a good thing? Because it is. It's good for me. And I haven't thanked you for getting me this job."

Frozen a moment, he stared at her, then looked away. "Oh. I thought you were mad at me about that. I mean, without your permission and everything."

"Controlling my life?"

"Yeah." Head bowed, he looked at his fiddling fingers. "I can't fix that."

"You can stop controlling my life."

"I told you. I am. I mean I can't change how I got us this job."

"True. But it's a good job, and I like it. Don't you?"

"Meh. It doesn't matter if I like it. As long as . . . "

"No, Jane. It _does_ matter."

"I wanted to make everything up to you. Well, what I could. I thought it was a good thing. Clever. I never dreamed you would hate me for it." He looked at her earnestly. "Or honestly, I wouldn't have done it. I would have just stayed there . . . on the island."

Lisbon watched his face drain of color. "No . . .. you had to get out."

"I should have . . . while I had the gun . . . could have saved us both a lot of trouble."

Her stomach congealed into a ball of ice in that second. "What do you mean, 'while I had the gun?'"

Jane shook his head and said nothing.

Grabbing his hand, she yanked his arm. Hard. "What do you mean, Jane? Tell me now, or I swear I'll beat it out of you! You're scaring me!" Her stomach was heating up now, cooking, bubbling.

Rubbing his palms on his trousers, he looked up, following the flight of a bird in the distance. "It was nothing. Just a moment right after . . . I think it would have been better if I . . . just ended it there. No island. No detention." He looked at her. "No controlling your life."

Lisbon threw up. One moment she was staring at him as the blood drained from her head and she felt hot all over. The next moment she was heaving into a nearby trash receptacle, unsure how she had got there, Jane holding her hair back. She sputtered, grateful for her body to be relieved of that hot mess. He handed her a white hanky and his water and she rinsed out and wiped her mouth.

She turned to face him, pale, now with anger. 'How could you? How could you think such a thing? Especially now, when you're free and we're . . . "

"Together?" He laughed.

Lisbon thought it a very bitter sound. "You still think about doing this?"

"Not really. Not doing it. Just thinking what it would be like if I had. How much could have been . . . avoided. But I couldn't do it. I thought of you. I thought it would hurt you if I . . . gave up. Like your dad. If I left you like that."

"You thought right, Jane. Look at me."

Jane did as she asked, calmly waiting for her to speak.

"It would break me, shatter me into little pieces, if you ever did anything like that. Do you understand me? It would ruin my whole life. I'd never get over it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Lisbon. I understand. It was only a moment. I shouldn't have brought it up."

Her hand was stinging! Jane was holding his face, his mouth wide in shock that Lisbon had slapped him. "You talk to me! You talk to me!" Tears ran down her face.

Taking the hand that had hit him, the one that stung, he held it, wiping the palm to wipe the hurt away. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Lisbon. I wouldn't do such a thing. I wouldn't leave you. Honest, I wouldn't. And I will talk to you. I will . . . when something's bothering me." He tugged her hand. "Will you talk to me?"

Lisbon folded the hanky so she had a clean surface to wipe her tears. "Yes. Of course I will. I'm glad you came back. Even if it wasn't the perfect way."

They both sat down and Jane started speaking again. "That means a lot to hear you say that. Thank you."

Brushing his fingers on Lisbon's shoulder for a moment, Jane continued. "They only wanted me. I thought you'd love working for the FBI. Use what you were made for. What makes you happy. So I used what they wanted to get what I wanted."

"Not freedom?"

"Sure, freedom. But not without . . . "

"You used yourself to get me this job."

"Yes. I guess that makes me the stupidest mark on the planet. And it didn't make you happy, anyway."

"I am happy! I love working for the FBI! It's the best thing that ever happened to me! And you let yourself be snared to make it happen?"

Jane said nothing, just slowly shook his head, looking at his feet. "Sucker, huh? And I didn't even do it right. I just grabbed at the chance and never thought how you'd feel about it."

"Yeah. That part wasn't so good."

"'Wasn't so good?' It made you hate me! Made you want me out of your life." His voice cracked and his eyes watered as he stood up, driving his hands into his pockets. "But it was too late. It was already started."

"Hey." She tugged his sleeve and stood up. "I took the job, didn't I?"

"But it made you not want to be around me anymore."

"That's not true."

He looked at her askance, daring her to fess up.

"Okay. It did in a way. But only because I don't want to start the FBI as your appendage or your floozy or whatever they thought, maybe still think, about me."

"My floozy? Sheep dip!" He smiled for a moment before letting the cloud settle again.

"What I said on the plane –"

"Oh, you meant it. Don't lie."

"I was mad. I was embarrassed. I wanted to make sure you didn't do this again or something like it without talking to me first."

"That's not what you said. 'Let's get this over with so I can go back to my life.' That's about as clear as you can make it, Lisbon."

"I was mad, Jane. Maybe I felt that way in that minute. But I got over it. I'm just now figuring out what you did for me. What you risked. When there was no way you _could_ talk to me first."

"I hope I would have talked to you first. But I can't guarantee that."

"I know. But you're working on it. I can see that. And when you put your mind to something, I know you can do it."

"Yeah?" He looked at her hopefully, really looked at her in the eyes for the first time since . . . well, the plane.

Pushing on his arm, she forced him to turn and face her. "Jane. You're my partner. My best friend. I'm sorry I hurt you. Really sorry I let it go on so long without even noticing."

"It did hurt, Lisbon. You don't know how much." It was soft, almost a whisper and he let the hurt show in his eyes. "When all I wanted- all I wanted was to get to you. Nothing else mattered. It was a chance to get to you."

She wrapped her arms around his waist and let his arms fall around her shoulders. "Oh, god. Jane. Don't you know I love you? After all this time and everything we've been through, don't you know I know you love me, too. I don't know what kind of love it is. But it's not going to die."

"There are ways it could. If you wanted it to."

"No. I wouldn't want it to."

"You could find someone."

"Like that's going to happen."

"You wouldn't want me around, then."

"I would. You'd still be my friend."

"Ooooohhh," he said dramatically. "Friend-zoned. Ouch."

"You wouldn't want to stay friends with me?"

Jane pulled her in tight as she craned her neck to maintain eye contact. "What if you found someone . . . and . . . it was me?"

Lisbon's mouth opened into a little "o" before she spoke. "What are you saying, Jane?"

He dropped his head and softly placed his lips on hers, feeling them tenderly close and kiss him back. "I want you to find _me_, Lisbon."

He let her go and they stood looking at each other for a few moments, she a little stunned and he smiling like he had the sun in his heart. "I'm glad we had this little talk. Thank you."

She caught his eye quickly before he could turn away. "Wait! One more thing."

He raised his eyebrows as a sign for her to continue. "Hmmm?"

"Jane, thank you for getting me this job."

"It was my pleasure, Lisbon."

He reached down to her hand, touching his palm lightly to hers and then drawing it slightly back. A question. Startled at his intimate gesture, she saw he wasn't looking at her, just keeping his hand near hers. Closing the distance, she curled her fingers to hang on, then smiled as he buried her hand in his firm, tender grip.


End file.
